Terms of Agreement
by urbestnightmare
Summary: Edward hates his boss so much, he's given her a nickname: Satan. He's convinced that Isabella is the Devil in Steve Madden shoes. When he agrees to "marry" her for the sake of the company, will she drag him to hell or to the redemption that they both need? AH/AU/OOC. M for language and lemons.
1. User Agreement

Chapter One: **User Agreement**  
EDWARD CULLEN

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 _I. By accessing these materials, you are agreeing to be bound by these Terms and Conditions of Use, all applicable laws and regulations, and agree that you are responsible for compliance with any applicable local laws. If you do not agree with any of these terms, you are prohibited from using, accessing or discussing the contents therein. The materials contained this agreement are protected by applicable trade mark and confidentiality law._

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When I was a little kid, there was nothing I loved more than chocolate and my piano. My favorite movie was Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. I had always imagined myself as Charlie; hoping that I would one day unwrap a Swan Sweet Chocolate bar and find a golden ticket winking out at me. When all the other kids said they wanted to be firefighters and astronauts, I wanted to be a chocolatier when I grew up.

I work at Swan Sweet Chocolates, but I sure as hell am not a chocolatier. In fact, I don't even see the chocolates in my day-to-day activities. I spend my days behind the computer, doing research, organizing reports, collating presentation copies. I'm convinced that my job is one of the Seven Circles of Hell.

I really don't mind the grunt work, though. In fact, it wouldn't be fair to compare my job to Hell, except for one thing: my boss is literally Satan.

I mean it. She's the devil in Steve Madden pumps.

When I first started working at Swan Sweet, I was bright-eyed and bushy tailed, fresh out of an overpriced college that I followed with a top notch culinary school. I had worked under Michelin starred pastry chefs, I'd travelled the world to taste and bake things that would literally stop your heart and send you on a one way trip to Heaven. I was the shit. And the company knew it. I hadn't been at Swan Sweets for three months before I had received two promotions.

I remember the day that Garrett Pace himself had descended from the high throne of the Board of Directors to meet little old me as I walked into the building for another day of work.

"You keep doing what you're doing, and you'll be going to high places, kid," he said to me. He'd slapped me on the back like a proud father who's son just struck a home run. I couldn't keep the shit-eating grin off my face when he walked me to a bright and shiny new office. I mean, it was the real deal. Glass walls, a sweet view, and even my own secretary. Okay, I had to share the secretary, but holy hell, I had my own secretary.

My ass had barely kissed the leather chair that stood proudly behind the desk when Satan walked into the room. They always tell you that Satan appears to you as an angel of light. And that, she did.

She was fucking gorgeous. I don't use the word lightly, but it's the only word that comes close to doing her justice. Long, milk chocolate colored hair that shone gold in the sun like the ticket I'd always looked for. It tumbled down around her shoulders and dared me to run my fingers through it. Deep, warm pools of coffee colored eyes that looked right through you and made you feel worthless. When they looked at me then, the quick flare of surprise and recognition was chased quickly away by icy indifference. Plump, soft lips that could kill a man. They had tipped into a small, almost imperceptible frown at the time. The Devil sure didn't play fair. I knew I was fucked.

But despite the fire that she ignited in my loins, and whisper of my conscience telling me to chill out, I was consumed by an inferno of hatred. I had sat my ass down in my chair defiantly, and crossed my arms as I waited for her next move. When I heard her voice again, after seven years of trying to forget what she sounded like, she wasn't even speaking to me.

"Mr. Pace, did my father approve this promotion?"

I had forgotten that Garrett was standing in the room, looking between me and Satan, trying to figure out how we knew each other. He cleared his throat when he was addressed and handed the devil a sheet of paper that undoubtedly had Charlie Swan's signature at the bottom, clearing me for the promotion that had awarded me the office she was currently standing in. Her eyes didn't leave mine as she took the paper from Garrett and ripped it in half.

I had to give it to her. The action didn't come off as petty or childlike. She didn't even blink. If I didn't know her better, I would've probably been scared shitless. But something about anger and hate makes you bold.

"Please return to your assigned desk, Mr. Cullen," she said as she handed the torn sheet back to Garrett. I hadn't looked at the man, but he had probably been shocked dumb. "There has been an error. There is no promotion."

"My name is stenciled into the glass," I challenged. A large part of me had mistakenly believed that she didn't have the power to take my promotion away. I was stupid.

"A mistake," she answered icily. "Please return to your assigned de-"

"You can go fuck yourself," I had fumed, interrupting her. I even stood up to assert my dominance. She didn't flinch when I approached her. "I earned this promotion. Nobody out there can do this job as well as me, and you know it."

"Mr. Pace, please ensure that Mr. Cullen returns to his assigned desk," she said to Garrett, all the while never breaking eye contact with me. I finally broke her gaze and looked over at Garrett. I was incredulous at the look on his face. It was really happening. I hadn't even been in my new office a full hour, and Satan was ripping my promotion away from me. And there was nothing I could do about it, except save my dignity and stay silent. Once she was assured of her victory, Satan turned on her heel and clicked away.

"I-I am so sorry, Edward," Garrett said to me when Satan was out of earshot. "I've never seen Isabella behave that way. I will try my absolute best to sort this out, I-"

"Don't worry about it, Mr. Pace," I answered him. I knew that there was nothing that he, I, or anyone else could've done about it. "At least I don't have to move all my stuff," I shrugged. Garrett gave me a sorry smile as I went back to my desk.

That was two years ago. So, why did I stay at Swan Sweets? It's a question I ask myself daily, and I still don't know the answer. Garrett had secured me pay raises here and there. He'd even given me more and more titles and responsibilities. For all intents and purposes, I am a junior manager without the office. A junior-junior manager, if you will.

I lift my eyes from my work to the office that should've been mine. Jasper Whitlock strides around the room now, talking into his bluetooth. He's making grand gestures as he paces back and forth, so I know he's working hard to close a deal. I respect the guy, and I don't blame him for Satan's decision to promote him over me. Doesn't mean I don't want his office, though. I'm so distracted with thoughts of revenge that I almost miss an e-mail that I just received. It's from corporate, and they're inviting me to a meeting upstairs that starts in... 6 minutes. I curse and jump out of my chair. There's barely enough time to grab my binder of research and a notepad, before racing to the elevators.

Four minutes.

Jesus Christ. I'm going to be late to the first corporate meeting of the quarter because I was too busy dreaming up ways to bring Satan to her knees. As soon as the words cross my mind, they're followed by a shadowy memory of the days when I knew what it was like to have Satan on her knees before me, lips wrapped around me, pushing me into the hot cavern of her mouth. Embarrassed, and instantly pissed at myself and her, I push the memory away with a cold determination. That was the past.

Two minutes.

The organization of the building prevents certain elevators from reaching certain floors. It's great on a normal day because I never have to worry that I'll be caught in an awkward elevator ride with the devil. Today, it's a nuisance because I have to take the elevator down to the fourth floor and race across the floor to the E elevators that will take me to the executive level.

One minute.

My watch is not my friend as I watch the second hand race past.

Thirty seconds.

I'm on the floor and I contemplate running to the conference room, but I don't want to look like a wet-behind the ears associate. I don't know what the meeting's about, but I know that being late won't help my chances if I want a future in corporate. I get to the room a full two minutes after the meeting is due to start, but color me confused. The room is empty; but at the head of the long, oak table, Charlie Swan himself sits, reading something apparently intriguing. Two men and a stern looking blonde are sitting to his left. I clear my throat, and Charlie looks up.

"Oh, yes, Edward!" he says warmly, as if he and I are old friends. I've only met the guy once in my life, and that was at the job orientation. I offer him a warm smile anyways. He's a stern old bastard who retired from his position as Chief of Police to open up a candy factory. He's crazy as all hell. A real Willy Wonka. But I respect the shit out of him.

"Mr. Swan," I greet as I step further into the room. I'm glad my confusion doesn't show in my voice.

"Come, have a seat," he points to a chair to his right, and I oblige him. He sets down his reading materials, and I'm not the least bit surprised that it's a book about fishing. From the looks of it, he's scribbled corrections to the text in the margins. I bite my lip to keep from laughing.

"This is Ms. Rosalie Hale," he says, introducing the blonde woman. "And these are her associates, Michael Newton and Tyler Crowley."

I smile pleasantly at them, but I don't say anything because I'm still confused as hell. I've never heard of these people, but the way Charlie introduces them makes me think that they're pretty important.

"Ms. Hale is an extremely adept manager of a cocoa bean importing and refining company on the East Coast," Charlie continues, smiling paternally at the woman who's beautiful, but has the personality of a glacier. "We're interested in a mutually beneficial relationship with Hale Partnerships. Like all diligent businesswomen, she's here to learn more about us, isn't that right?"

Learn more about us? I almost snort. More like tear us apart with an investigation to make sure that she doesn't lose a penny if she partners with us. I know that Charlie knows this, but he's playing the ruse of a sweet old grandpa who doesn't know any better. From the look of The Glacier, she's not buying it.

"Swan Sweets is very thorough in reporting our financial assets -" I begin, opening my binder to provide evidence of the assertions I'm going to make. I didn't get a memo or an agenda, so I have no clue what points Charlie wants me to hit, but I'm gonna wing it. The Glacier cuts me off before I can get very far.

"Why did you end your partnership with Strong & Hammer?" she asks sharply. Her blue eyes are piercing into my skin, and I get the feeling that this woman eats scrubs like me for breakfast. I clear my throat and glance at Charlie. He nods graciously.

"Last year, we discovered that one of the batches of refined cocoa that we received from Strong & Hammer was misdated. The cocoa would not have expired before reaching the shelves, but they would have expired before our printed date, thus compromising the quality of the goods that we manufacture. Of course-"

"Who discovered the error?" The Glacier asks again. Tyler and Michael are scribbling away on their notepads. I feel like I'm being interrogated. I look at Charlie again and he gives an encouraging nod.

"Me," I answer.

"How?" The Glacier demands.

"I cross checked the shipment date with the growers harvesting date and our reception date. There was about a week discrepancy in a batch."

"Is that normal protocol?" The Glacier demands. I can't tell if she likes that we paid close attention to detail, or if she hates it, so I answer honestly.

"No," I answer truthfully. "We trust our cocoa providers to be honest in their dealings with us, so we don't have a standard protocol for date-checking. Informally, however...well, we're committed to making the best chocolate to ever hit shelves, and we take every precaution to prevent mistakes."

"Every precaution?" The Glacier parrots back to me. "Does that mean that there is truth in the rumors circulating last year that Swan Sweet receives FDA report sheets on cocoa and other fruit quality before they are released to other manufacturers and the public?"

I open my mouth to defend the company, but Satan beats me to it.

"Those rumors are baseless," she answers as she breezes into the room. "Swan Sweet was accused of receiving early reports because we are the only company in the nation who processes and tags the reports within hours of receiving them. We are diligent, Ms. Hale, not cheats."

Charlie's face warms with delight as he lays eyes on his daughter. It's no secret that Charlie has an extreme soft spot for his daughter, so I have to make sure that my hatred of her doesn't show too clearly. When she sits down in the chair next to me, I try hard to ignore the scent of honeyed spice and crisp, clean clothes. When she leans over to set her bag down, I try my best to ignore the creamy swell of her breast beneath her white blouse. I clear my throat and discreetly move my chair a few inches away from her. As much as I hate her, and as much as I know that her soul is black and beyond redemption, the woman calls to me.

 _Come closer, said the spider to the fly_.

For the first time since I had stepped into the room, I see a flicker of emotion cross The Glacier's features. Confusion.

"I'm sorry," she says. "You seem to know my name, but I don't know yours."

Tyler and Michael pause their incessant scribbling to drool at the Devil. I can see the unabashed lust burning deep in their gaze. If only they knew that Satan is a black widow spider, drawing men to her so that she could eat them up.

I can't blame them, though. I'd been there, once.

To my left, Satan gives a warm smile. To the unknowing observer, she looks the picture of innocence and kindness.

"I'm sorry," she apologizes as she stands up and reaches across the table to introduce herself.

Yes, the devil has a name, and it is Isabella Marie Swan.

"Isabella and Edward will be flying out to New York to settle any further fears your company may have," Charlie says, pushing back his chair after Satan has shaken The Glacier's hand. "They will oblige your company any questions you may have, and as a gesture of good will, I have given them permission to sit with your board during the partnering process."

Flying to New York? Sitting with the Hale Partnerships board? I am beyond confused, but I kept my concerns to myself. I'm pretty sure that I haven't received an email informing me about any of this. I stand politely when The Glacier and her goons stand to leave. The Glacier even says that she looks forward to hosting us in New York. When they exit the conference room, Charlie's sweet old grandpa facade leaves with them.

"I'm rethinking the whole thing," he says, shaking his head as he sinks back down into his chair.

"It'll be okay, dad," Satan soothes her father. "Once we've taken care of the partnership details, we won't have to deal with them again."

Charlie, however, refuses to be soothed.

"The nerve of him," he fumes. "Sending his daughter instead of coming up here like a man. You know I played football with Matthew Hale?" Charlie closes his eyes and rubs two fingers into his temple.

I'm a smart guy. I know when to keep my mouth shut and disappear. This is obviously one of those times. I close my binder and stand to leave.

"Where are you going?" Charlie asks, opening his eyes to fix me with a leveling gaze.

"Back to my desk?" I answer, more timidly than I would've liked.

"No," Charlie answers. "Sit down. There are a few...things that we need to discuss."

Do you ever get a sense that something bad is going to happen? It's like your brain connects with the cosmos and you just _know_ that if you don't get out of there, you're going to have a bad time. Looking between Satan's carefully set face, and the grim expression on Charlie's, I knew that I was in for a really bad fucking time.

Satan pulls a manila envelope out of her bag and slides it across the table to me. I pick it up and pull out a stack of papers that is thick enough to be a few books of the bible. On top, in thick, bold print, are the words: **Terms and Conditions**.

"What is this?" I ask Charlie, setting the contract down with a soft thud. "What are you asking me to do?"

"What do you know about Hale Partnerships?" he asks gruffly. I shake my head.

"Nothing," I answer honestly. "Except what I've learned today."

Charlie nods and is silent for a brief moment, as if he's thinking about how to phrase what he says next.

"Rosalie doesn't have decision making power at Hale Partnerships," Charlie explains. "She's...a glorified Isabella. Her father, Matthew Hale, is the one who calls the shots. We grew up together, but my world was very different from his. Matthew grew up as a member of a strict religious sect. Time has softened him, but he's still a hard ass."

It's all I can do to keep from raising my eyebrows at Charlie's choice of words, and the bitterness behind them.

"All due respect, sir," I interject. "What does that have to do with me?"

Charlie bores into me with his gaze. It's so similar to Satan's. In the few seconds of silence that pass, I wonder if he's going to fire me for speaking out of line.

"You're the best, Edward," Charlie says bluntly. "You know Swan Sweets inside and out. Almost better than I do. I'm getting old, and that means I'm getting tired. I need to know that this company will be in good hands when I decide to pass it on. So I want you to go to Seattle with Isabella, and I want you to show those Hale Partnership pricks that just because we're a chocolate company doesn't mean we're soft."

I stare at Charlie, and I can't even begin to list all the reasons why I absolutely do _not_ want to go to New York. Especially if Satan is going too.

"Sir -"

"I know this is short notice, son," Charlie says, holding up a hand to silence me. "But this is important. If you do this, and if you come back with positive results, there is a senior manager position waiting for you."

His offer blows me clear out of the water. I'm like a fish on land, all I can do is open and close my mouth. To my left, Satan is silent. Charlie offered me the job in front of her, so I know she can't walk into my office when I get back and take it from me.

Holy shit. Senior manager.

A slow grin spreads on Charlie's face and he knows he's got me.

"I-" I try to thank him, or to accept his offer, but clearly my brain is still stuck on shocked.

"Don't thank me yet," Charlie warns. "You'll bring Emmett McCarty with you. Garrett says he's a good pick to fill your job when you move up."

I nod dumbly, because I know that if I speak, I'm gonna whoop and holler like a little kid. I might even dance around Satan, singing, _na-na-na-na-na_ in triumph, so I make sure to not even look at her, even though I can feel the heat of her displeasure rolling off of her in waves.

"And finally, you will pose as Isabella's husband for the duration of your stay in New York."

Jesus Christ. I figure I must've been a mass murderer or something equally horrible in my past life, because that's the only reason I can think of to explain this punishment. Like cold water dumped over my head, I'm sobered up from the excitement at my promised promotion.

"Sorry?" I say politely. "I think I misheard you." What I really want to say is, _what the fuck? Hell fucking no. Your daughter is a fucking sociopath, and I'd rather stab myself in the balls than pretend, even for one second, to be her husband._ I'm expecting Satan to be in an uproar, but she's silent as stone. I wonder if she planned this as another sick way to torture me and see me squirm.

"Like I explained before," Charlie answers. "Matthew Hale has some pretty old fashioned beliefs. He won't give Isabella the time of day because he doesn't believe that women should run businesses. That's why Rosalie was accompanied by those two young men. You will help Isabella overcome Matthew's archaic beliefs, in addition to being competent representative of Swan Sweets."

I want to say no, I want to tell him and his demon spawn that they can go fuck themselves, but my tongue is like lead in my mouth.

"The terms of this agreement, including your promotion, are outlined in that contract," Charlie nods to the stack of papers before me. "In addition, there is a binding agreement of confidentiality."

I look up at him, and his eyes are hard with gravity.

"If a word of this leaves this room, and if anyone knows of this beyond the three of us, we will legally and financially crush you."

I don't shudder like a little bitch, but I sure as hell want to. On the last page of the contract they handed me, is a spot for my signature. Satan's delicate cursive and Charlie's heavy signature are already there.

"All you have to do is sign," Charlie says to me. I chance a glance at Satan. She's looking straight ahead. To my surprise, she looks as pained as I feel. The wheels in my head start turning immediately. This may quite possibly be the worst contract I have ever entered into, but there is a chance here that I can make Satan's life a living hell. The thought gives me just enough courage to pick up the pen. I hesitate for a long moment.

With a flick of my wrist, I sign my life away. I've literally made a deal with the devil.

Oh, what the hell.

* * *

A/N: It has been a long time since I left this site behind. The world beyond this website is a hard one, but I have learned so much. I would like to think that a community still exists out here, still reading, still reviewing, still reaching out like so many axons trying to make a connection. If you are here, if you are reading this, I see you, I appreciate you, and I implore you to push beyond your normal habits and leave a review. Drop a PM. Let me know that you see me too. This story is for you.


	2. License for Use

Chapter Two: **License for Use  
** ISABELLA SWAN

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 _II) Permission is granted to temporarily suspend restrictions imposted by Human Resources on personal office relationships for the specified, transitory period of time only. This is the grant of a license, not an official declaration of marital union, and under this license you may not: i. modify the existing terms of agreement ii. infringe upon set personal boundaries iii. attempt to verbally or otherwise inform individuals of the existence of this agreement iv. transfer the terms of the agreement to another person v. interpret the license outside of the existing legal parameters._

* * *

I see Edward long before he notices me.

He's sitting in the conference room to my father's left, explaining something to Rosalie Hale and the two other Hale Partnerships representatives. His binder is open before him, and though his face is a mask of calm indifference, I can see by the light of his eyes that he's passionate about what he's saying. He stops talking when Rosalie interrupts him, and I watch him rake his hands through his hair in frustration, a motion he's probably not even aware of.

That's all it takes for a memory from seven years ago to slam into me, of us in Madrid, when _I_ had the privilege of dragging my nails against his scalp and yanking at his soft copper tresses. Vividly, I recall the way his eyes would close in ecstasy, the way a groan of pleasure and pain would rumble darkly in his chest, the way his grip on my thighs would tighten hard enough to leave bruises...

I clear my throat quietly to dispel the images, and step into the room before my shaky knees can send me running. I'm late, but I manage to hear Rosalie's last question.

"...There is truth in the rumors circulating last year that Swan Sweet receives FDA report sheets on cocoa and other fruit quality before they are released to other manufacturers and the public?"

Edward goes to answer, but I interrupt because I need a moment to recollect myself before I hear his voice again. I haven't spoken to him since I'd snatched his promotion away.

In my defense, the promotion truly was a mistake, and Charlie had sent me to correct the issue. I had simply capitalized on the opportunity to bring Edward to his knees. Not that it had worked. The man is simply too persistent, too self-assured, too _sharp_ , to be brought down that easily.

"Those rumors are baseless," I answer as I enter the room and immediately realize my predicament. The only seat I can take is next to Edward. I hesitate for a fraction of a second before making my way closer to him. It won't do if Rosalie notices my aversion to him when she's supposed to think that we're romantically involved. Married, actually. "Swan Sweet was accused of receiving early reports because we are the only company in the nation who processes and tags the reports within hours of receiving them. We are diligent, Ms. Hale, not cheats."

I glance at my father, who is sitting at the head of the table. He beams at me, and I feel a little more settled and secure, even while it feels like I'm sitting next to a lion who is waiting to devour me.

Charlie ends the meeting quickly, and Edward doesn't speak again until I pull out the manila envelope that will legally wed us for the next month.

"What is this?" he asks Charlie. "What are you asking me to do?"

No matter how much I have tried to prepare myself for this, to steel myself against his charm, his voice, his looks, I am never ready. His voice washes over my skin, and that's all it takes to send a shiver up my spine. In a moment of weakness, I glance over at him.

He looks older, more mature. Like wine, Edward has grown finer with age. Thirty-one suits him beautifully. I reprimand myself and yank my eyes away from him. Charlie is telling Edward that he will have to be my pretend husband while we're in New York. He doesn't mention that Edward will have to keep up the charade for the next four weeks.

I bite my lip.

I'm not looking forward to spending time with Edward, and I've let Charlie know as much. There are quite a few protections in the agreement that Edward has to sign, but despite the legal barriers, I _know_ that Edward will find a way to devastate me. Again.

But as much as I abhor the thought of having to pretend to be Edward's wife, and as much as I detest the idea of stifling the anger and bitterness I feel for him, I can't let any one else bear this burden. Partly because I am next in line to direct Swan Sweet, but mostly because I don't want to threaten another girl's happiness and sanity by tying her to Edward, even if only for a month. Behind Edward's handsome and enticing exterior, behind his pretty words and that kissable mouth that they come from, behind his charm, his swagger, his confidence that seems to draw you in and soak into your pores until you feel like nothing can ever hurt you, behind the way that he can make you feel like you are the only one who has ever and will ever matter, there lies a dark, ugly and irredeemable soul.

To my right, Edward signs the agreement, and I feel a rush of despair thread through me. I had been holding on to the hope that Edward wouldn't sign the agreement, and Charlie would offer it to Jasper. Knowing Edward, he was probably accepting the terms with the express intent to use our secret to hurt me.

Too bad he had trained me, seven years ago, how to build up walls high enough to rebuff even the likes of him.

He stands to go, and I don't miss the dark expression on his face that he quickly masks when he shakes Charlie's hand. My father leaves, but I stop Edward from following suit.

"We need to discuss some details of this agreement," I say to him. I'm looking at his nose to keep from falling into the heated gaze of his emerald eyes. He yanks his hand through his hair again, before leaning against the doorpost to survey me.

Even though I'm his boss, and I've got him by the proverbial balls, the power dynamic doesn't feel that way. He's calm, confident and totally unruffled. I make the mistake of looking into his eyes, and he looks almost predatory. I remind myself that I know who Edward really is behind the mask he wears every day, and it gives me enough strength to hold his gaze.

"Then discuss," he finally says. I catch the hint of a sneer on his face, and I want to shrink away from his gaze, but I keep my spine stiff because I don't want him to think that I still care. That I'm still vulnerable.

"Please have a seat," I tell him. I don't want him to loom over me while I'm struggling to remember that I have power over him.

"I'll stand," he answers coldly. "I apologize, but I have a lot of work to take care of if I'm going to be leaving-"

"Do you even know when we are due to leave?" I ask him. I savor the faintest flick of confusion that lights on his face. He doesn't know.

"Sunday morning," I tell him as I pull our itinerary out of my bag. I slide a copy across the table. Bait. His eyes flick from the me to the paper, and back. He finally moves away from the doorframe and takes a seat across from me. It feels like we're on equal footing again, but we're not supposed to be equals. I'm supposed to be his boss.

"We'll land in New York on Sunday night, just in time for the Hale Partnerships gala," I ramble, producing two flight tickets and gala invitations. He looks down at the invitation and gives a snort of derision. I smile in agreement. Hale Partnerships charges ten thousand dollars a plate at its gala, and we both find that to be ridiculous. I wipe the smile off of my face before he notices.

"You can look through the itinerary when you have time," I continue. "As you will see, there will be little to no time to engage in sight-seeing or other tourist activities. However, if you wish to stay in New York after our time is done, you may remain for up to a week on the company's purse."

He flips through the itinerary quickly, and when he looks back up at me, the rage on his face is so fiery, I think I might burn under his gaze.

"We're going to be in New York for _four weeks_?" he hisses quietly. Edward doesn't raise his voice when he's angry, he gets quiet. I know this from experience.

"The company is aware of what an inconvenience this may be, which is why we are offering you so many amenities and bonuses in return for your-"

"Jesus Christ, I don't give a fuck about the length of the trip, or that 'the company,' seems to think that they own me and can do with me what they please," he explodes. His voice never rises above a conversational tone, but the heat behind his words is all I need to know that he's livid. "What's _really_ an _inconvenience_ is that I have to spend four _._ Fucking _._ Weeks _._ With _you_."

I keep my expression carefully controlled. I give him a placid little smile, even while hot tears prick at the back of my eyes. I don't blink.

"Actually," I say around the ball in my throat. I'm glad that my voice doesn't tremble. "Our marital arrangement is the next topic of discussion." I reach into my bag for another bound presentation folder, and I'm glad that I can take the moment to recollect. When I slide the folder over to him, I'm back in control of myself.

"What the fuck is this?" he asks, flipping through the pages of my life. I've condensed everything that he needs to know about me into a book. As if he needed one. He looks back up at me incredulously. "I don't need this," he says with a dry chuckle. "I know way more about you than you've put into this..." he trails off and shakes his head in disgust.

"Please take some time to review the materials therein," I say as I pick up my bag and gather my papers, effectively ending our conversation. "Even if just to refresh your memory."

"Are you expecting this shit from me, too?" he demands.

"That won't be necessary," I answer coolly. I don't need a book from him. Unfortunately, I'm an expert in Edward Cullen. I turn to leave, not wanting to be trapped with him for a second longer than necessary. I only make it to the corridor when I suddenly feel weak and exhausted, as if I haven't slept in years. And I haven't. Not really. Not the way I used to sleep when I was with Edward.

I close my eyes, and I'm grateful that tears don't fall. I take a deep breath to rouse myself, and I'm heading towards the elevator when Edward calls me back.

"I want to discuss these terms," he says loudly. I set my jaw and turn to face him. His eyes trace my frame again, and when he meets my gaze again, there's something indecipherable in his eyes.

"You've already signed the contract, Edward," I answer. He flinches when I say his name. It's so quick, and so gentle that an observer wouldn't even notice it if they didn't know Edward. But I know Edward, and I noticed.

"So what?" he demands, exasperated, "I don't get a say? Just in the first few pages, there's a hell of a lot more protections in here for you than there are for me. I can't even tell my parents? What kind of bullshit -"

"You signed the contract," I repeat, louder and more firmly.

"Are you fucking kidding me? I was sitting in front of the CEO of the company for god's sake. Any lawyer worth a shit will argue that I was coerced. I want to discuss these terms. What if I have a girlfriend already? A wife?"

"Do you?" I almost can't believe that I've asked the question, and by the look on Edward's face, neither can he. I want to take the question back, but suddenly I desperately want to know the answer. I keep my gaze level, and Edward makes a sound of disbelief. He shakes his head before he answers.

"You don't get to fucking ask that," he says in a low, dangerous tone. I'm silent for the next few seconds because I don't know what to say to that. "But I know you don't have a boyfriend. Or a husband. Because if you did, you wouldn't be asking me to fucking play house, now would you? And that just makes what you did worse, doesn't it?"

Edward's words sting like a slap in the face, but I refuse to show him that he's hurt me.

"You signed the contract," I answer him, because it's true. He can't back out now. I have the leverage. I turn and press the button for the elevator so I won't have to look at the anger and hatred that undoubtedly marks his face. Thankfully, the elevator doors slide open immediately. I step in, and I keep my face stoic as the doors close on Edward's painfully beautiful face.

My phone rings as I descend to the parking garage. It's Angela calling to remind me that we have dinner plans, and I admit that I had forgotten. I drive straight to the restaurant, and when I spy Angela, I can't keep myself from hugging her for a little longer than usual. She pulls away from me, grasping hold of my elbows and searching my eyes.

"What's wrong, Bella?" she asks, her brow furrowed in concern. I laugh, but it comes out more watery than I'd like. A few tears escape, but I brush them away quickly.

"You're beautiful, Ang," I tell her, and I have to clear my throat because my voice refuses to steady. But I haven't lied, she _is_ beautiful. Her chestnut brown hair curls around her shoulders, and she's wearing a yellow cardigan over a blue floral dress. Her pregnant belly protrudes gently from beneath the dress, and the wedding and engagement rings on her finger sparkle in the streetlight. She married Ben in a dream wedding last fall, and they didn't waste time starting their family. She's beautiful, and I can't help but think that she's exactly where I should be in life.

"Oh, Bella," she murmurs, drawing me back in for another hug. She lets me pull away first.

"You know I'm always here for you, right?" Angela says gently as she leads me into the restaurant. She knows that's all she needs to say to get me to spill my guts. We're seated quickly in a cozy booth, and the waiter offers us wine. We both get water.

"I thought I was over this - over him," I confess, pushing my hair out of my face. "But I saw him today, sat next to him. _Spoke_ to him. And, _god_ , its like I'm back in Spain, meeting him for the first time, nineteen years old and _stupid_."

"He hurt you, Bella," Angela says softly, folding a napkin in her lap. She doesn't have to ask to know that I'm talking about Edward. He's the only one who has ever been able to elicit this sort of response from me. "But you hurt him too," she points out, meeting my gaze, challenging me to say that I didn't.

I can't, so I roll my eyes.

"Did he sign the contract?" Angela asks in a quieter voice. The waiter returns to us and we give him our orders without ever having glanced at the menu.

"Yes," I answer when the waiter leaves.

"And, how do you feel?" Angela asks, watching me carefully. I bite my lip and shrug. I want to say that I'm totally and completely against the idea of having to put up this charade, but even if I lie to myself, I can't lie to Angela.

"I have this little hope that he'll finally _listen_ to me. That maybe we can finally talk about what happened, and move on from it."

"It doesn't look like you want to move on," Angela observes.

"Jesus, Ang, sometimes I wish you took what I say at face value," I shoot back. She's too observant for her own good. Or mine.

"Listen, Bella," she says, suddenly serious. "I don't want you to get hurt again-"

"I won't-" I interrupt, but Angela plows on as if she didn't hear.

"So don't try to force him to hear you out. What you did to him...well, you can't very much blame him for feeling as angry as he does."

Angela siding with Edward feels like a slap in the face, so I pull on a mask of indifference and nod in agreement. Angela immediately notices the change.

"I'm not siding with Edward," she sighs, sitting back in her chair.

"Really?" I ask coolly. "Cause from over here, it sounds a lot like you are."

"Bella, you'll never be able to move forward if you don't face the part you played in this," Angela persists.

"I _know_ the part I played in this. I made a mistake. A huge one, I freely admit for everyone to hear. I, Isabella Swan, _fucked up_." Angela's eyes widen at my expletive, but I don't care, I'm too caught up in my own wave of self-righteousness. "But it's been seven years! I'm not asking him to turn around and love me again, but the absolute least he could do is forgive me. Or forget me. But no, he's spent the last seven years playing with me, torturing me, keeping his promise that he would make me pay. I fucked up, Angela, but I sure as hell don't deserve what he's put me through."

The food arrives at our table, and I feel my cheeks warm in embarrassment at my outburst. The server acts like he didn't hear me standing up on my soapbox, and for that, I resolve to give him a hefty tip. When he's gone, Angela leans forward again, and the warm and friendly smile she had offered to the waiter has been replaced with a look of earnest in her eyes.

"If he had done to you what you had done to him, would you have forgiven him, Bella?" she asks, effectively yanking me off of my high horse. "Even after seven years, would you be able to forgive him?"

"I don't know," I answer quietly. "But I do know that I wouldn't have done to him what he's done to me."

"So that's what you tell him," Angela says. She looks satisfied with herself as she turns her attention to her meal.

"What?"

"When you talk to him about what happened, you tell him what you told me. You tell him that you know what you did was unforgivable and you don't expect or deserve his forgiveness, but you _do_ deserve to be treated like a human. Because that's what you both are. You're human, and you make mistakes."

I mull over what Angela is saying to me, and as much as my pride wants to prevent me from ever confessing that I was in the wrong, I know that she's right. I also know that it's better to have a wounded ego than to be trapped in a faux-relationship for a month with someone who has made it their personal mission to see me crumble.

"Jesus, Angela," I mumble around my steak. "You should be a counselor or something."

Angela beams at me, and she reaches across the table to squeeze my hand gently. We finish the rest of our dinner with lighter topics like her due date and her baby shower. She wants me to be the baby's godmother, and I warn her that I'm not qualified to be a spiritual mother. She laughs and tells me she knows. We part ways after Ben calls, worried about his wife and child. I can't help but feel a pang of jealousy when her face brightens and warms at the sound of her husband's voice.

I barely kick off my heels when I get home when I realize that I've left the entire partnership brief on my desk at work. Charlie wanted me to review it and make notes so that I would be prepared for when I sit on the Hale Partnerships board, and from the size of the brief, I needed to get started now if I was going to be ready by Monday. With a labored sigh, I pull my shoes back on and return to work.

I'm surprised to find Edward walking out of my office when I get to my floor. My eyes immediately narrow in suspicion.

"What are you doing here?" I demand. My voice is cold as the arctic wind, and I see Edward tense minutely in response.

"Jasper asked me to put some files on your desk," he answers, equally as cold. I blink. He could be telling the truth, but if he's lying, I don't want him to slip away when I discover what he's really done.

"Come with me," I order as I walk past him and into my office. Half of me doesn't expect him to obey, but he does. Like he said, there are two new folders on my desk, on top of the partnership brief. I turn to him, and cross my arms.

"Thank you," I tell him, and I can tell he's caught off guard. He doesn't say anything, but he turns to walk away.

"Edward," I call out. He stops and turns to face me. His face is a cold mask, I can't read any of his emotions. With Angela's advice loud in my head, I plow on. "I-I know that this can't possibly be convenient for you," I take a deep breath. "So, I just wanted to say thanks for doing this, and I-I'm sorry."

I hope he recognizes the olive branch that I'm offering. I hope he takes it. I hope we can take a step away from our anger and our hate, even if just for the next month. His face is so still, so cold, that what he says next catches me off guard:

"Your apologies stopped meaning anything to me a long time ago," he sneers. He turns without another word, and he's gone.

I drop myself into my office chair, and drop my face into my hands. Again, the feeling of exhaustion and hollowness settles itself around me like a familiar blanket. I hadn't realized how much I still craved Edward's forgiveness until he refused to give it to me.

I hadn't realized how much I still craved Edward's friendship until he showed me that it would never be a possibility again.

I hadn't realized how much I still loved Edward until he made it perfectly clear that he would never stop hating me.

* * *

A/N: I am completely shocked and humbled at the response that this story has received. Each one of you who have reviewed, who have followed, who have found my work worthy of your time, has given me a gift that warms me. You are the reason I write, I am indebted to you for your kindness. Thank you for showing me that a community still exists here. I write for you.

What do you think Edward has done to Isabella? What do you think Isabella has done to Edward? I look forward to reading your theories.


	3. Disclaimer

Chapter Three: **Disclaimer**  
EDWARD CULLEN

* * *

 _The materials described in this agreement are provided "as is". Swan Sweets makes no warranties, expressed or implied, and hereby disclaims and negates all other warranties, including without limitation, implied warranties or conditions of merchantability, fitness for a particular purpose, or non-infringement of intellectual property or other violation of rights. In layman's terms, Swan Sweets is not responsible for the physical, emotional or financial well-being of the herein described Edward Anthony Cullen._

* * *

It's Friday, so that means that I'm due at my parents house for dinner. I love my parents, I swear I do, but they're a tough crowd to please. Scratch that, my _dad_ is a tough crowd to please. He's an accomplished physician, and he has two fuck-ups for kids. I snort as I pull into my parent's driveway. If my mom heard me call myself a fuck-up, she'd gasp and beg me to take it back. Ever the southern belle.

I park my car and turn the engine off. I don't get out because I have to take a minute to steady myself. I know that my father's going to find some way to bring up Satan, and figure out how to blame me for losing her. If only he knew what she'd done. But he'll never know, because I'll never grow the balls to tell him. I shake my head in disappointment at myself. Even after what Satan has put me through, I'm still protecting her.

Fuck. I wish I had a drink.

I get out of the car and walk up to the door before I psych myself out and drive to the nearest bar. After Satan, I find myself drowning my sorrows at the bottom of a bottle enough times to be called an alcoholic. But it's not alcoholism if nobody knows, right? And I'm doing a pretty good job of keeping that secret. For now, at least. The cold air bites at my cheeks and helps pull me out of my mood a little. My knuckles barely graze the door before my mom yanks it open to usher me in. I grin because I'm pretty sure she was waiting for me by the window.

"Hey mom," I greet her with a kiss. The house isn't the home I left so many years ago. Every year, my mom goes on a renovation spree and redecorates. My sister, the shopaholic, doesn't help things. This year, my mom's trying out a cozy brown leather scheme. I'm digging it, and I hope she keeps it, but knowing her, the house will look different by Christmas.

"Come in, we were just waiting for you," she beams at me. Her hands are fluttering around my head, trying to smooth out my hair and coax it into place, but its a hopeless battle that neither of us will ever win. I let her dote on me as I make my way through the house and into the dining room.

"The house looks great, mom," I compliment her. She blushes like a schoolgirl. My dad's sitting at the head of the table looking like something crawled up his ass and died. My little sister is sitting to his right, scrolling through something on her phone with a look of perpetual boredom on her face.

"'Sup loser?" I snicker as I muss Alice's hair. It's black, short and spiky this time. I hate it, but I keep my mouth shut. She bats my hands away and rolls her eyes at me.

"Nobody talks like that anymore," she sneers. "Jesus, Edward, your age is showing."

"You're not that far behind," I warn as I take my seat and look up to meet Carlisle's eyes. He's old as shit, but he's still sharp as fuck. I wait for him to finish analyzing me. Across the table, my mom is looking between us with concern on her face. I know she's wondering if we'll have a peaceful dinner.

"You look well, Edward," Carlisle greets with a stiff nod. I return the nod, and my mom lets out a little sigh of relief. After a quick prayer, we start eating. The silence that falls over the table is only punctuated with scrapes of cutlery against ceramic. I can't help but remember a time when we were all happier people. The table used to be full of conversation and laughter. Lord knows you couldn't get Alice to ever shut up. But fuck if I'm going to be the one to start a conversation. I know that my dad will just find a way to criticize everything I say.

"So, how's work, Edward?" my mom asks. Her eyes look a little nervous, and I know she's hoping that I'll play along with the charade and answer her question the right way. I love my mom, and she doesn't deserve to have to tip-toe around us, so I indulge her.

"It's good, actually," I say when I've swallowed. "They're sending me to New York for some partnership deal. They say if I do good they'll promote me to senior manager when I get back."

"Really? Oh, honey, that's so wonderful!" Esme beams, and I can tell she's genuinely happy for me. She looks at my dad. "Isn't that wonderful, Carlisle? A promotion!"

"At a chocolate factory," he says. In those four words, he manages to fit enough condescension and patronization to last me a decade. I literally have to bite my tongue to keep from answering. My mom's eyes flit nervously between my dad and me. She's scared that I'll explode. I don't.

"Carlisle..." my mom sighs in disappointment.

"I'm only saying that we didn't pay all that money for culinary school and those michelin starred tours for Edward to be working as a paper pusher at a _chocolate factory_."

Any other day, the derision in Carlisle's voice would be enough to set me off, but I want my mom to be happy, so I keep quiet again.

"S-So how long will you be there?" Esme asks. She gives me a soft smile as if to say 'thank you' for holding my tongue. I nod.

"Four weeks," I answer. I don't want to say too much and accidentally let it slip that I'll be traveling with Satan.

"Oh, hey, I actually just read about that," Alice pipes up. I'm not surprised that news of the partnership has already hit the media. Swan Sweets is pretty popular on the West Coast.

"Isn't Isabella going too?" she continues. My head whips to her, and I think that maybe it's better when Alice _doesn't_ talk. Her eyes are glittering with mischievousness. She knows that she's just given Carlisle a reason to go off on a tirade. Surprisingly, he doesn't. But Alice is out for blood tonight, and she keeps pushing.

"How is she, by the way? You know, she was my favorite out of all your girlfriends. I especially hated the blonde one. You know, the one with the enormous boobs?"

"Alice, jesus-" I try to interrupt, but she won't stop.

"The redhead was annoying too. What was her name? Tasha? Tara? Doesn't matter. Isabella was the _jackpot_. I can't believe you fucked that up,"

"Alice, language!" my mother chides at the same time that I curse and tell Alice to shut up.

"What?" she asks innocently, looking between my mother and me. Miraculously, Carlisle hasn't said a word. He hasn't even stopped eating. It's like we don't exist, like he can't hear us. I don't know if I should be grateful or suspicious.

"I'm just trying to be polite," Alice plows on. "I did like her, you know. I'm pretty sure you liked her too, Edward. In fact, weren't you in love with her?" She drags the word 'love' out like a third grader making fun of someone with cooties, and she pulls a face.

"Yeah, and weren't you a lesbian in college?" I shoot back. Alice pouts. She's not the only one who can draw blood.

"That's not fair," she protests. "I was experimenting."

"Some experiment," I scoff.

"Please," Esme tries. Her voice is so gentle, it trembles like a leaf in the wind. She's desperately trying to hold on to the picture perfect family, but we're too far gone for that now.

"At least I didn't bring back a girl from Spain only to fuck up so bad that she won't even talk to me," Alice answers. That one hurts like a bitch, but I'm not one to back down from a fight.

"What was her name again?" I say, continuing as if Alice hadn't spoken. "Irina, right? Now _that_ was a fuck up. What was it she said to you? You're a soulless bitch who didn't deserve to be happy? Or, wait, maybe I'm confusing that with when she compared you to the grinch and said that you only know how to suck joy out of everyone around you."

It's a low blow, but I don't give a fuck. Alice should've known better than to bring up the devil. I've got her, though, and instead of responding, her eyes fill up with tears. She pushes away from the table, and I immediately feel guilty. Alice gets under my skin, but she's my kid sister and I love her to death.

"Jesus, Alice, I'm sorry," I try, but she's not having it.

"Fuck off, Edward," she says before disappearing from the room. I sigh and let her go. I push the food around my plate for a while because I can't look up and meet my mom's eyes. When the silence gets too much to bear, I look up at my mom, but she won't look at me. She looks like she wants the floor to open up and swallow her whole. Her face is pale, and I see her hand trembling as she tries to slide her rice onto the fork. My father reaches out, and wraps his fingers around her hand to steady it. She offers him a smile, but she looks exhausted, as if all of her years have come crashing down on her at once.

"Edward," my dad finally speaks to me. He releases my mom and turns to meet my gaze. There's something different there from the disappointment and disapproval I usually see. I don't want to identify it, because if I do, I'll have to acknowledge how much I've really fucked up, and I don't have the balls to do that.

"Dad, I-"

"Don't speak, Edward," Carlisle says. "Just listen." The fervor of self righteousness that usually clings to his words is gone, replaced instead by resignation and resolve. For some reason, that scares me more than any of his anger or disappointment ever has. "You can not continue this way. You can't keep doing this, lashing out at everyone and everything around you."

"Dad-"

"I said _listen_!"

In my thirty-one years of knowing my parents, I have never, _never_ heard my father raise his voice. Ever. He, like me, has always gotten quiet when angry. When he raises his voice now, it's enough to shock me into silence.

"We have indulged you more than we should. When you told us that you loved Isabella and you were going to marry her in Spain, we didn't tell you to reconsider. We sent you money, we helped with the planning. We got to know Isabella as well as we could over Skype and e-mail. We supported your decision, every step of the way. We did everything short of flying to you because your mother was too ill to do so. We didn't ask you to wait until she was better. We indulged. I don't know what happened to you over there, I don't know what you did to Isabella, but I don't care. What I know is that I sent my son to Spain, and what has returned..."

Carlisle trailed off, and I can tell he's trying to calm his emotions. He swallows hard, and I'm too frozen in my seat to even breathe.

"What I know," he repeats more calmly. "Is that I sent my son to Spain, and what has returned is a _shell_. A spiteful, vengeful shell. You've shut us out. You've shut Alice out. The only words that come out of your mouth are angry, resentful and hurtful. We've waited, and we've indulged. We hoped that you would come out of it on your own, but you haven't. So, no more. No more indulgence. You - you are not welcome in this home until you sort yourself out. Until you're ready to be part of a family again."

It takes a few seconds for his words to register, and when they do, the shock shakes me out of my stupor.

"Wait, what? You're kicking me out? Dad, what the fuck?"

"Edward, language," my mother mutters quietly, and it's like she's saying it out of habit. She's looking at her plate, she won't meet my eyes. I'm standing, and I don't even know when that happened.

"Mom, are you serious? You're letting him kick me out? Are you guys fucking serious?"

"Don't blame your mother, Edward," Carlisle says calmly. "This is your doing." He's completely unruffled, completely unmovable. I know I can't change his mind, but I can certainly change my mother's. I mean, she's my _mother_ for god's sake.

"Mom! Look at me. Look at me!"

She drags her eyes up to meet mine, and then I see it. The same look that my father is wearing. It's like cold water turning over my head. It's like I'm being stung by a thousand electric needles. It's like I'm falling head-first into a pit. I blink in shock. I'm stunned into silence.

"Don't blame your mother, Edward. You-"

I don't hear the rest of his sentence. In a daze, I turn and walk out of the dining room. If my parents don't want me, fine. Fuck it. I don't need them. I don't need _anybody_. I let the door slam behind me, and it yanks me out of my stupor, and suddenly I'm _pissed_. This is all Satan's fault, that fucking _bitch_. I turn and slam my fist into the doorway. Doesn't even leave a mark. I can't say the same for my fist, though.

"Jesus Christ."

I turn my head towards the small voice that has spoken. It's Alice. She's leaning up against my car, fists buried deep in her pockets. I take a deep breath and watch it come out like powdery smoke. It's not cold enough to be wearing coats yet, but it's getting there.

"Alice, I'm sorry about what I said, I shouldn't have brought it up." I turn to her so she can see the sincerity on my face. She waves me away.

"Don't worry about it," she chuckles. "I deserved it. I was going for blood back there." She offers me a wry smile, and I know we're okay. I know she loved Irina. In fact, she's probably the only person who would ever understand what Satan had done to me, if I ever bothered to tell her.

"I could tell. Why'd you do it?"

Alice looks up at the sky and she's silent for a long moment before answering me.

"Because I'm tired of pretending like everything's okay. I hate the whole charade."

I don't answer, but I can understand her. Alice wants things to be real again.

"So, pretty tough getting kicked out, huh?" she says. I look down at her.

"You heard that?"

She nods.

"I was at the top of the stairs," she confesses. "Dad tore you a new one, didn't he? I didn't stay for the whole thing."

I close my eyes and nod. My adrenaline is wearing off, so the pain from my self-inflicted injury is beginning to ebb up my arm. I grit my teeth and welcome the pain. I'm so desperate to feel something, anything, besides blinding rage and sorrow.

"You know they still love you, right?" she volunteers in a quiet voice. When I open my eyes to look down at her again, she looks like she's twelve again, and looking to me for comfort when she's too scared to tell our parents about something. I give her a soft smile and nod. It doesn't feel like it, but I know they love me.

"I know," I say. "Dad says I can't come back until I get my shit together. But it's not like they're wrong. It's not fair, what I've been doing to you guys."

Alice is silent for another moment. When she speaks again, she keeps her gaze carefully trained on the sky.

"And it's not fair, what happened between you and Isabella," she says quietly. "I-I know something happened to you, Edward. You can't even say her name. And I'm sorry for it, because, for what it's worth, I really did like her. I thought she made you happy."

I don't say anything. I know Alice looked up to Satan. Alice is seven years my junior, but only two years younger than Satan, so they had bonded almost immediately. Alice had even taken to calling Satan 'sis.' I reach out and pull Alice into a hug.

"I'm sorry you got caught in the middle of all of this," I tell her.

"Will you come back soon?" she asks. Her voice is muffled in my chest.

"I don't know," I answer honestly. I don't know if I can get my shit together. I don't know if I can ever let go of what Satan has done to me, or what I have done to her. I don't know if I can move past the hatred and the revenge and the bitterness. I don't know if I can ever stop being broken, or if I'll ever want to heal.

"I love you, kid," I say to Alice before I release her. She doesn't try to stop me when I get into the car, but she stands in the driveway and watches me back out. She keeps standing there, long after I leave.

I swear that I'm going to go straight back to my apartment and walk the straight and narrow, but it's like the bar is a sexy woman whispering in my ear that she'll take care of me. Before I know what's happened, I'm parking my car and pushing the door open to _The Bench, Bar and Pub_. This place is familiar to me. Reliable. A shelter in the storm. I've even got a favorite stool at the bar, and the bartenders know me by name. My ass kisses the worn leather, and immediately, the stress I'm feeling starts to melt away. I don't care about the music, or the dancing, or the bitches who keep ogling me like I'm dinner. All I care about is the liquor and how smooth it feels going down my throat.

I've lost count of how many drinks I've had when I spy her. Satan herself has climbed up out of hell and is standing shyly at the bar. She's standing next to a brunette who looks like she's a preacher's wife. I narrow my eyes and I realize the brunette is fucking pregnant. Satan catches me looking, and the look of disgust on my face must not be obvious enough because she makes her way over to me.

"Edward, are you okay?"

Concern. Fucking concern. I laugh because I'm drunk as fuck, but also because Satan doesn't have concern for anyone but herself.

"Why're you in my fucking bar?" I say. I think my words are slurring together, but she understands me well enough. "And why'd you bring your pregnant friend? What kind of bitch does that? Brings a pregnant girl to the bar. Jesus fucking-" I burp, effectively interrupting myself. I think that's hilarious, so I chuckle.

"Edward, how did you get here?" she asks, nudging the low ball glass away from my reach. I don't protest cause it's mostly empty anyway. "Did you drive? Do you have someone to take you home?"

"Nope," I answer. There's two of her. Twice the beauty. Jesus Christ, she is fucking beautiful. And she smells good as fuck too. She's the total package. She used to be mine. Alcohol numbs the pain of the memory enough so I can really feel it again without crumbling. Jesus, I'd forgotten how much it hurt. I'd forgotten what it feels like to wake up every morning and remember that Satan used to be mine. Used to be.

"No one to take me home," I continue. "My parents kicked me out today, cause I'm a fucking disappointment. Your fault."

I can't stop myself from volunteering that information. A little voice in my head tells me to shut up before I get myself into real trouble. I tell the voice to go fuck itself. I think Satan looks contrite, but I'm not sure because the room is starting to spin slowly. I must've tried to stand up, because she's telling me to sit.

"I don't want to fucking sit," I argue. "Why are you trying to take care of me? Is it because you're guilty? D'ya feel guilty? Do you know-" I hiccup, but I don't care because suddenly I absolutely need to tell her something. "Do you know how much I fuckin' _love_ you? Not loved. Love. Cause I can't fucking stop loving you. What a bitch, right? And you _fucked me over_. Fucked me right over."

"Edward-"

"Don't speak, Edward, just listen!" I say the words because they're the first thing that pop into my head. The next thing I know, the floor is racing up to meet me.

I just let it happen.

* * *

A/N: Again, I'm humbled at the response this story is getting. When I know that I am writing for someone, someone who will care enough to review or otherwise engage with my work, it gives me the energy I need to write. Thank you so much. Please keep reviewing, keep following, and keep recommending this work.

I have read and enjoyed each of your reviews. Some of them have actually shaped this chapter, and some of your theories are very close to what has transpired. Please continue to be patient with Edward and Isabella as they work out the issue of their past, their present and their future. They are two people who have hurt each other very deeply, and they need to heal.

On a side note, what do you think Alice's 'lesbian experiment' with Irina was all about? How do you guys feel about Carlisle kicking Edward out? Also, did anyone catch the respective ages of Edward, Alice and Isabella? I can't wait to hear what you all think.


	4. Limitations

Chapter Four: **Limitations**  
ISABELLA SWAN

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 _In no event shall Swan Sweets or its suppliers be liable for any damages (including, without limitation, damages for loss of data or profit, or due to business interruption,) arising out of the use or inability to adhere to the conditions outlined herein, even if Swan Sweets or a Swan Sweets authorized representative has been notified orally or in writing of the possibility of such damage._

* * *

 _Okay, Isabella, get a grip. Get a grip._

I'm pacing my living room floor, and chewing on my lip as I try to calm myself down enough to be cool and composed. Down the hall, in my bedroom, on my bed, Edward Anthony Masen Cullen is passed out, drunk. By the looks of it, he's going to have the hangover of the century when he wakes up.

There is no scenario where he wakes up happy.

Last night, Angela had coaxed me to go to The Bench, swearing that just because she couldn't drink didn't mean that I shouldn't. I told her that the bar was no place for a pregnant woman, but when Angela sets her mind to something, there's really nothing I can do to dissuade her. But as strange and out-of place as a pregnant woman at a bar is, seeing Edward there, _drunk_ , was even stranger. The Edward I knew didn't drink. The Edward I knew certainly didn't get drunk.

And then there had been his confession. His drunken, heart-wrenching confession. It had hit me like a freight train when the words left his mouth. I was convinced I would have a heart attack, right then and there. But I know that my heart kept beating because I could feel it when it broke. His words sounded so much like truth, I wanted to believe him. But I knew that no matter how true or untrue the words might be, Edward wasn't likely to repeat them. So I shoved them away, along with all of the other memories of Edward, and took him home. I had resolved to be stoic and detached. I tried to convince myself that I was only doing my civic duty by making sure that he got home alright; but I knew where he lived and I brought him to my apartment anyway. Some part of me wanted Edward in my space again.

He was a tortured sleeper. He tossed and turned, letting out little moans of pain that sometimes sounded like ecstasy. He looked the image of the fallen Gaul, wrapped up in my sheets as his body strained against them. I had tried to make him comfortable by taking off his socks, but in his stupor, Edward yanked off his shirt and his jeans and tossed them to the floor, offering me a tempting view of his soft skin, and his lithe but muscular physique. He was skinnier than he had been, a little gaunt in some places, but still handsome. Still enticing. I watched him throughout the night and remembered a time when he slept peacefully, cocooning his body around mine as if he were afraid that I would get up and leave him in the night.

 _He wasn't totally wrong._

Having Edward in my home - in my _bed -_ was causing my own thoughts to revolt against me. I had tried to sleep on my couch, but I couldn't. I found myself drawn to him, worried for him, watching for any sign of alcohol poisoning. He'd started to vomit in his sleep, and I had cleared it away and turned him on his side. As the sky began to grow light outside, and the worst had passed, I showered and brushed my teeth to try to wipe away any traces of a sleepless night. When I looked into the mirror, I was disappointed to find that my efforts had been hopeless.

So I paced now, back and forth, over and over, trying to settle myself. Edward totally unsettled me. Half of me yearned for him, and was eager to throw my ego aside if it meant that I had a chance of being his again. The other half of me violently rebelled against this thought, yanking up memories of what he had done to me, all while ignoring what I had done to him. My fretting was making me tired, and I needed to be in perfect focus and control when Edward woke up, so I went to the kitchen and started making breakfast.

I ended up cooking too much. I sighed at all of the food that would probably go to waste. I caught sound of water running and figured that Edward had woken up. Armed with aspirin and a cup of water, I went to face the beast. He was awake, but he was very clearly trying not to be. He had one arm flung across his forehead to shield out the dim morning light that filtered into the room.

"Rough night?" I asked him. I tried to force lightheartedness into my tone, but it came out flat and nervous. He didn't look at me. I don't know how much he remembered from the night before, and not knowing made me nervous. I padded closer to the bed.

"Take the aspirin, it'll make you feel better," I coaxed. "And I cooked breakfast."

He was a marble statue in my bed. He didn't move an inch. When he spoke, his voice was raw.

"The only thing I want is for you to leave me alone," he ground out. Even with his hangover, even while obviously in too much discomfort to give me his normal level of vitriol, he would rather cling to his hatred than accept my help. It made me tired.

"You don't have to be my friend," I coax in a louder voice. It's loud enough to get him to wince. "You don't have to stop hating me. But at least take the aspirin and eat so you don't have to be forced to stay at my place all day."

He doesn't react to my attempt to placate him. He's a stubborn cow, always has been. At least that's one thing that hasn't changed.

"Can we please, just for now, call a truce?" I hate the begging quality to my voice, but I'm desperate. I know that he still cares for me, and I hold on to that knowledge when I make my plea. It falls on deaf ears. I switch tactics.

"You know, you threw up in your sleep last night?" I begin. Edward hates vomit, absolutely abhors it. "I cleaned you up, you didn't even stir. It was slimy, you'd had rice and chicken for dinner. But that wasn't the worst part. Hearing someone begin to choke on their own vomit, it's-"

"Okay, fine, truce! _Jesus Christ,_ " he curses to get me to shut up.

Edward's cursing under his breath, but I smile in spite of myself because we have a truce. It's not just a step in the right direct, it's a leap. I'm almost giddy, but I don't let it show. He takes the aspirin and downs the water without any further difficulty.

"I cooked breakfast," I repeat more for my own benefit than his. Watching his throat work as he swallowed the water and aspirin was teasing my brain down a dangerous trail. He pries his eyes open to bless me with a peak of molten green, and closes them almost immediately because of the light.

"You need thicker curtains," he answers.

Desire hits me hard when I watch his pink lips form the words. He shifts under the sheet, pressing the length of his hard and thick morning erection against the sheets just lightly enough to remind me that he's still a man. I remember when we first slept together, he had been worried about my safety and comfort because of his size. He hadn't met a woman who's body had been able to accept his without pain before. Just another in a list of ways that we were perfect for each other. Made for each other. I cross my arms and curse my traitorous body. Edward was lying in my bed, in discomfort, still hating me, and all my brain could register was a man who knew how to fuck.

And how to love.

I rip my gaze away from him and go to the kitchen without answering him. I feel like I'm tiptoeing on ice, any second I'll slip and be carried away by the cold, unforgiving and volatile sea of Edward. I pile his plate high with pancakes and sausage and eggs. I scrape a little for myself too, but I stick to fruit because my stomach is so twisted up in knots, I don't think I can eat. When I return, I find Edward exactly as I left him. I think that if he had been alive in the age of Michelangelo and Donatello, he would have been a model for their art. I clear my throat to warn him of my approach.

"Eat," I encourage him. "You won't want to, but it's better if you do. I'll refill your water."

I set our plates down and go in search of a pitcher. When I come back, I'm relieved to find that he's taking my advice. Despite the look of abject horror on his face at his condition, he's forcing some food down. I set the pitcher down, pick my plate up, and curl myself into the reading chair by the window, the furthest spot in the room from him as possible. The only problem that my room seems to shrink when Edward is here. His presence alone reaches into the furthest corners of the room.

"It's good," he says after a moment. A rush of pleasure blooms inside me. He's trying to keep up his end of the truce. "I don't remember you being such a good cook."

"Well, I haven't gone to culinary school or anything, but I can hold my own," I try to joke. His green gaze slides over to me. His usual inferno of hatred isn't there, but he doesn't laugh either. I clear my throat in embarrassment and fork a piece of melon into my mouth. Silence passes. Neither of us seem too interested in the food, but Edward hasn't made another attempt to speak. I take a deep breath and tell myself that my ego can be damned for now. I don't want to spend the next four weeks in this limbo. I almost preferred it when we didn't have a truce, and he had plenty to say.

"Before, you said you wanted to discuss the terms of the agreement," I start quietly. "I don't know how much sway I'll have with Charlie's lawyer, but if you're feeling particularly...passionate about anything, I can promise to pass it on."

Edward stares at me for a long time, and I'm aware that I used the wrong words. I can't promise Edward anything. They, like my apologies, don't mean anything to him. He sets his plate aside, and I steel myself for the heat of his anger that never comes.

"Come here," he says, patting a spot on the bed beside him without breaking my gaze. Like a cornered animal, I look between the spot and Edward.

"Edward, I don't think that's such a good idea," I try, but my voice fails. Scorn mars his features.

"What do you really think that I'll do to you?" he asks so quietly his voice gives me chills. My argument dies in my throat, and like a lamb to the slaughter, I set my plate aside and go sit beside him. Nothing could have prepared me for being so close to Edward again. My heart's beating so fast in my chest I think it'll break free and fly out. It's so loud that I know Edward can hear it. I bite my lip almost hard enough to draw blood. The heat coming off of Edward's bare skin is tugging at the edges of my control, and I know that if he touches me, even for a second, I'll be lost.

"In New York," he says so quietly that I have to lean in to hear him. "We're supposed to be in a believable marriage. It will be suspicious if either of us flinches or avoids each other's touch," he says. His breath is soft and warm on my skin. It smells of mint and I wonder if he woke up while I was cooking to brush his teeth. I swallow hard. His logic is legitimate, but I don't understand how our truce can suddenly translate into him wanting to touch me.

"Look at me," he commands gently. Like I'm under his spell, I turn until my gaze meets his. I'm sitting with one leg folded underneath me on the bed now, the other dangles off of the edge. I draw my lip between my teeth, and Edward is mesmerized. He draws his hand up, and it hovers in the air for a long moment before he drops it in his lap. He curses underneath his breath and tears his gaze away from me. Hot tears prickle at the back of my eyes.

He can't do it. He can't make himself touch me. I swallow hard.

"It's okay," I say, and I'm surprised that my voice sounds light and unaffected. "We don't have to touch to be in a believable marriage. At least...at least we're talking again." He nods, and I keep my eyes squarely on his face because I know that if they look anywhere else, I'll be in trouble. Unlike Edward, I have no problem touching.

"At least we're talking," Edward echoes, firmly refusing to meet my gaze. I nod to myself and shift to get off of the bed. Just as I rise to go, Edward's hand snakes out and he laces his fingers around my wrist, freezing me. His touch is gentle, so light that I could've missed it, but it's real. His hand is warm, and where his skin touches mine, it feels like bolts of electricity are racing through me. When I first met Edward, when I first spoke to him and touched him, I had butterflies. But what I feel in my stomach now, are not butterflies. They are great, winged beasts, large enough to consume men. My pulse has skyrocketed, my spine stiffens even while everything else melts. It wasn't this intense the first time I touched him. It had never been this intense. I wonder if I'll pass out and embarrass us both.

"Wait," he says before he quickly withdraws his hand. Where there was fire, there now is ice. Powerless to refuse him, I sit down. I think that if he tells me to confess my sins to the world in return for his forgiveness, I'll do it. I'll do anything he asks as long as it results in the chance that he'll touch me again. Mesmerized, I watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. "Why were you at The Bench last night?" he asks. It takes him a second, but he finally meets my gaze. From up close, there are flecks of grey and silver dancing among his emerald threads. His copper fair falls boyishly onto his forehead and is delightfully mussed. I wonder if he knows how handsome he is.

"Angela roped me into it," I give a nervous laugh when I realize that I've been silent for longer than is polite. "She, uh, wanted to help me get my mind off of some things. What about you? I thought you didn't drink." Edward's features darkened, but I don't take back the question. I want to know. I want to press and see where it hurts, so that maybe he can finally yell and scream at me like I deserve and we can finally move on. But Edward doesn't show weakness.

"That was before," he answers. "This is now."

I nod, and silence hovers briefly between us.

"Is," I take breath to steady myself. "Is your drinking going to be a problem in New York?" I ask quietly. I carefully keep all accusation out of my voice, but that doesn't stop him from pinning me with his sharp gaze.

"I'm not an alcoholic," he answers sharply. I bite my lip.

"I didn't say that you were," I answer. He doesn't say anything to this, so after another moment passes I get up to put our plates away. This time he doesn't stop me. When I return to the bedroom, he has pulled on his shirt and jeans, and he's rolling his socks onto his feet.

"I had Steven, the intern, go fetch your car from The Bench," I inform him. "He said he'll call when he gets here." Edward nods to confirm that he's heard me. He gets up and stretches, pulling his shirt taut against his body and flashing a sliver of abdomen out at me. I bite my lip.

"I'm going over the partnership brief in the living room, if you'd like to join," I offer. He gazes at me, but doesn't say anything. I remember when I could look at him and know exactly what he was feeling, exactly what he was thinking. Not anymore. Now, his face is a perpetual mask of calm and cold. Achingly beautiful and unreadable. I nod to myself and turn to exit the bedroom. If anything, immersing myself in legal jargon will distract me until Steven comes with Edward's car.

To my surprise, Edward follows me. He sits across from me, and leans forward to pick up a stack of papers that I've already gone through and made color-coded notes on. I bite my lip as his eyes trace the words on the page.

"What does this stuff even mean," he mumbles as he tries to decode the thick legal jargon. From the color of the post-its, I know he's looking at Hale Partnerships' rebuttal to our demands.

"They just don't want us to swamp them out," I answer. "They want a larger percentage of our revenue, they want more control over the shipping and selection process, and they don't want us to be able to refuse shipments."

Edward's eyes lock on mine.

"We can't give that up," he tells me. I shrug.

"My dad doesn't see the big deal, and neither do I. Hale Partnerships is dragging this out longer than necessary as it is, and where it stands, we have no leverage. We don't have a cocoa producer, and if we don't seal this up now, our output will drop next quarter. We're hedging all of our bets on this deal going through."

"And if it doesn't?" Edward asks. The light in his eyes is refreshing. I've heard talk of Edward's stellar work and his eye for detail, but seeing his dedication to the company first hand is humbling.

"Then we're in trouble," I confess. "It will be hard to find another quality producer."

"Okay," Edward nods. "We can concede on a lot of these other things if we're interested in rolling over and playing dead,"

"It's not like that," I try to interrupt, but Edward continues as if he hasn't heard me.

"And if we're in the business of kissing Hale Partnerships's ass, that's fine too, but this is the one thing we can't budge on. We need to have the right to refuse shipments, otherwise we lose all accountability. Hale can send us shit, and we're powerless to do anything but pay for it."

I hadn't considered that. The way Edward lays it out so clearly, its obvious to me now that we need to retain our refusal rights, but I have to admit that I hadn't seen it that way before. Neither did Charlie. I offer him a slow smile.

"I can see why they say you're the best," I say quietly. He doesn't return my smile, but he nods at me. I hand him a pen, and we go over the brief together, from the beginning. I have to admit that Edward has a brilliant mind. I had always known that he was smart and sharp as a whip, but the way that he can see the big picture and apply it to the little details is impressive. He's confident for a reason. When we're talking about Swan Sweets, I can see Edward's guards relax. He's more vibrant, more colorful. His speech, usually peppered with expletives, is clear, concise and almost poetic. Senior manager will be a breeze for him, he knows the company inside and out. I can't help but wonder if he knows it even better than I do. I bite my lip when I realize that I've been zoned out and haven't noticed him talking.

"...But Eneko Roca really had a way of making the plates sing. He was an expert at melting down the chocolates and integrating them into the dessert subtly enough to not overwhelm you and leave you wanting more. He preferred the Swan Sweets by-the-pound, because he swore it was the best quality in the world," he says. His eyes are passionate on mine when he talks, entrancing me.

Eneko Roca was the michelin starred chef that he worked under when he was in Spain. I was nineteen and naive at the time, so I didn't really care much about what Edward was doing when he wasn't fucking me or doting on me. Now, I wish I had paid better attention. I wish I had supported his hard work the way he had supported my teenage dreams. We were worlds apart, back then. It's no wonder things ended the way they did. But that isn't an excuse.

"Eneko really made me fall in love with Swan Sweets, because he saw it as more than a candy company. It was another tool in his belt to craft amazing dishes, you know? It was the best experience of my life so far. Or maybe it was just the effect of the country on me. Spain is beautiful." His gaze is so heated, and so concentrated on mine that I stay frozen, unmoving under his gaze lest I break the spell.

"Or maybe," he adds in a quieter, more broken voice. "Maybe it was the effect of the people on me. The effect of..." He cuts himself off and drops his gaze.

 _The effect of you on me._

I don't know what to say because there is so much that I want to say, so we both sit in silence for a moment. We can't meet each other's eyes, we're wrapped up and immobilized under the spell that Edward has inadvertently woven.

"Edward," I finally say. My voice sounds as if I haven't spoken in months. My mouth is suddenly dry, and I feel giddy with nerves, but I have to tell him. "In Spain...I-I was only nineteen. I was just a kid. I was _so, so_ stupid. And scared. Terrified, actually. I got so caught up in having the attention of an older guy, I wasn't really thinking about the consequences to my actions. But then, right before everything, I started thinking, and it hit me so hard, and it _terrified_ me. Everything happened so fast, and I made a mistake. I made the biggest mistake of my life, but I-"

Edward gets up and tosses the papers he was holding onto the coffee table. The suddenness of his movements startle me into silence.

"Edward," I try, but it's useless. In long strides, he makes his way across the living room and out of the front door, letting it slam loudly in his wake.

"But I'm sorry," I whisper to the empty apartment.

* * *

A/N: A gentler chapter than what we've seen so far. I hope that you all keep trusting that Edward and Isabella can, and will find their way to each other.

To address some concerns: I tagged this as Drama and not Angst because I don't intend on having the angst levels rise to those that I've seen in the Angst genre. Rather, Edward and Isabella are two people who have hurt and been hurt and are living in a situation similar to what is real life. I am a firm believer in HEAs that are well and truly earned, so both Edward and Isabella will work for theirs.

As for my posting schedule, I intended on posting once a week on Thursday evenings, but as you can obviously see, I can be woo'ed by the reviews that I get. Yes, I shamelessly admit that when you guys respond to this story, it pushes me to keep writing it. As soon as I wake up in the morning, I read all of your reviews. Crazy, right?

How do you guys feel about this progress? What do you think will happen next? Can't wait to hear your thoughts and ideas!


	5. Privacy Policy, Part I

Chapter Five: **Privacy Policy (Part I)  
** EDWARD CULLEN

* * *

 _During the course of this agreement, both parties agree to disclose personally identifiable information that may have an impact on the ability of each party to uphold the standards of this agreement. Both parties agree to collect and submit truthful, and confidential information to each other to prevent discovery of this agreement. This information may pertain to, but is not limited to: addictions, abuses, sexual histories, mental health histories, family histories and other information that is pertinent to this agreement._

* * *

I've always been the master of packing for a trip at the very last minute. When I was younger, my family would visit our cousins in Volterra, Italy. Alice and my mom would spend weeks planning every last detail of their wardrobes, and we would always pay extra to accommodate all of the bags they would bring. Not I. I don't know if it was laziness or super fucking talent, but I had mastered the art of packing my bags the day of the flight before I turned twelve.

Okay, so it's a shit skill. I admit it.

I zip up the last of my suitcases just as the hour hits. It's five in the morning and I didn't sleep at all last night. Satan's half-ass attempt at an apology kept haunting me.

I didn't want to hear Satan's bullshit fucking apology because I knew where it was going. She was going to launch into a tirade of self-depreciating bullshit that wouldn't change the fact that she made a choice. She chose that bobble-headed, hyped up on steroids, Jacob Black over me. Full stop. I didn't need to hear her attempts to guilt me into forgiving her. I didn't want to hear her try to blame anything and everything but herself.

Everything that had happened in Spain came down to one thing: Satan couldn't take the heat, so she ran out of the fucking kitchen. If she ever wanted me to even entertain the idea of treating her like a fucking human being ever again, she would have to start by admitting that what she had done, what she had chosen, was no one's fault but her own.

I'm actually surprised that I can bear to think about all that had happened without feeling the deep-seated pain and resentment that usually accompanied those memories. A little voice inside my head tells me that maybe my drunken confession has done something to alleviate the pain. I tell the voice that he isn't paying rent, so he needs to get the fuck out.

My uber arrives, and I grab my briefcase before heading to the door. The guy who's picking me up comes out of the cab and offers me a bright smile as he helps me put my two suitcases into the trunk. I hope he's not a talker.

"So, where are you headed?" he asks as he pulls away from the curb. I groan inwardly and reach into my briefcase for something, anything, to make me look busy. My hand closes around a presentation folder. I pull it out.

"East coast," I answer. "Business trip," I add pointedly. He glances at me in the rear view mirror and nods in understanding. I open the folder, hoping that my reading will deter any further conversation.

My blood turns cold when I realize what I've pulled out of my briefcase. It's Satan's bullshit summary of her life. As soon as the cold washes over me, my blood turns hot with anger. I know her better than anyone. Shit, I know her better than she knows herself. This bullshit, twenty-page summary is a fucking insult.

"You know, my mom lives in New York," my driver says. "She's always asking me to come out and visit. But, I gotta grind first. I'm trying to work at Swan Sweets, but I have a shitty resume, you know what I mean?"

I give him some noncommittal response. My attention is on Satan's handbook. I can't help but snort when she goes through her list of favorite foods. I notice that she leaves off Sweets Softies. They're one of our most popular non-chocolate candies. They're soft, sweet, and extremely malleable. Satan used to eat that shit by the tons after I introduced them to her by spreading them over her perky tits, and sucking them off.

Fuck her.

"I mean, I would be great there, you know? I've really got an eye for trends and I think I would do good in their sales and promotional departments. Plus, I'd let Isabella Swan tell me what to do anytime, you know what I mean?"

I realize that Mr. Talks-Too-Fucking-Much has been chatting the entire time. I meet his gaze in the rear view mirror. I know he's waiting for me to agree with him, but I'm pissed at the thought of any guy thinking about Satan that way, much less talking about her. He drops my gaze when he catches my glare, and finally, sweet fucking silence fills the car.

He pulls up to the curb of the airport a few minutes later, and mumbles an apology. I know he's trying to save his tip, so I give him one for his efforts.

I spy a trash can by the curb, and I toss Satan's 'About Me' project into the garbage where it belongs. I've barely grabbed hold of my bags when I'm accosted by two guys wearing their Swan Sweet badges.

"Mr. Cullen?" the one on the left asks. He looks like he's trying to sound confident but might shit his pants any second now. The other one doesn't look to be in much better shape. I recognize them as interns from the hospitality department. I nod.

"Mr. Swan wanted us to meet you here and handle your check-in bags. He wants this experience to go as smoothly for you as possible," the kid says like he's reading a script. I nod and wave them towards my bags. These kids are still wet behind the ears, I'm sure that this is like a promotion for them.

I wonder why Satan asked me to be at the airport three hours earlier than the flight if she knew that we wouldn't even have to deal with our check-ins. I want to demand an answer from her, but that would require much more talking than I would like.

I push the doors to the airport open, and I'm immediately thrown into a crowd of blood-thirsty paparazzi. They're sharks who smell blood, and I begin struggling my way through them when I realize who they're here for. They're calling out Satan's name, throwing questions at her about Matthew Hale and allegations against his company. For a split second, I wonder if I should leave her to fend for myself, but apparently, my body has already decided for me. I find myself pushing through the paparazzi to the center of the tight circle. Bulbs are going off so quickly, it's like there's a spotlight on Satan. When I reach her, I grab her wrist. She startles and turns to me, wide-eyed and panicked. She looks like fucking Bambi. I curse under my breath, and again, I find myself doing something I never thought I would do. I pull her close to my side, and she clings to me.

Fuck if it doesn't feel good to have her pressed against me again.

She's the perfect height, and she's soft and warm. Her hair smells faintly of strawberries from her shampoo. It's through sheer force of will that I don't let my body react.

"Isabella, is this your husband?" a particularly obnoxious paparazzo asks. He lifts his camera when Satan looks up, and he snaps a picture. His bulb is so bright, it momentarily stuns Satan, but not me. I'm instantly pissed.

"Hey, fuck off," I tell him. With my free hand, I reach out and yank the camera from his hands and toss it onto the ground. He lets out a slew of curses that definitely makes Satan blush. I pull her closer to me, and begin pushing through the paparazzi. They let us move without much resistance, but I notice that Satan doesn't loosen her grip on me.

I don't let go of her either.

When we get to TSA, the paparazzi fall back and let us go through the security checks in peace. I release Satan immediately, because I know that if I hold on for even a second longer, I may never let her go again. I clench my jaw in disgust at myself. I'm pathetic.

She pushes her hair behind her ears as we move up in the line, and looks up timidly at me. I don't change my expression, because I don't want to talk to her.

"I thought we could avoid them by being early," she says in a quiet voice. "Thanks for..."

I nod in answer. We clear security checks in good time, and it dawns on me that we have two and a half hours before our flight. Fuck. Me.

"Do you want to get something to eat?" Satan asks me. Her moment of weakness has passed. When she looks at me for my answer, I can practically see her icy demeanor sliding into place. I answer that I haven't had breakfast yet, and we're off.

"How about McDonalds?" she asks, jerking her thumb at the food chain as we walk past it. I wrinkle my nose in disgust.

"For breakfast?" I ask. The disdain is clear in my voice, and to my surprise, Satan gives a small smile. She doesn't say anything though, so we continue looking for a decent place to eat. Her next few suggestions are all junk, and I'm growing less and less hungry as I begin to realize that the options available to me are all trash. Beside me, Satan doesn't look distressed at our lack of edible prospects. In fact, she looks almost...amused. She's biting down hard on her lip to keep from laughing.

"What is it?" I ask warily. She pushes her hair out of her face and shakes her head, but she can't control it. She finally gives in, and begins laughing so loudly and so thoroughly, that we're forced to stop. Great. Satan's lost her fucking mind. The people walking by are looking between me and Satan, and I try to look pleasant until Satan can get a hold of herself.

"You're such a food snob!" she chuckles as her laughter dies down. She's even wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. I'm obviously a riot.

"I'm not," I mumble in response. I'm not a food snob. I just like quality food. That doesn't make me snobby. Right?

"You are!" she insists as we continue walking. "You don't even want baked goods from _Starbucks_. Starbucks is quality food."

"Yeah, at the _airport_ ," I answer. I ponder her accusation. Perhaps my palate has grown more mature, but it's not like I'm a picky eater. "I just want to enjoy whatever I put into my mouth," I say out loud. Satan falls silent beside me. I look down at her. She's using her hair as a curtain to shield her face, but I can see the blush creeping up into her cheeks.

Jesus Christ.

As much as I can't stand Satan, I can't deny my physical attraction to her. And the thought of her mind being in the gutter drags my mind down there too. I spy a convenience store that we're passing for the third time now.

"Just a second," I tell her before I go into the store. It doesn't take long to find what I'm looking for. I pay quickly, and return to Satan. She's waiting for me, leaning slightly against her carry on. Her mile-long legs are clad in dark leggings, and she's got on an old Forks High hoodie. Her hair is free to fall around her shoulders. She doesn't look to have aged a day since Spain. Seeing her like this, outside of work, with her hair down and in comfortable clothes, dredges up shadowy memories that I would have rather left forgotten. It's like someone has punched me in the stomach, because suddenly, I have to remind myself to breathe.

"Edward?" she says when she spies me. Her brows furrow in concern and she approaches me. "What's wrong?"

I shake my head to clear my fog of thought, and Satan backs off, interpreting my action as telling her that I'm fine. I'm anything but. I blink, and wonder how I can continue to pretend that I'm not the most pathetic fuck in the world for still yearning after Satan, even after she fucked me over. It's easy to hate her from afar.

A quiet voice in my head suggests that maybe we should consider letting go of the hate. I wish the voice was a real life Jiminy Cricket, so I could crush him under my foot.

"Here," I say to her. My voice sounds colder than I anticipated, but it's better that way. I open my hand to reveal what I've bought from the convenience store. They're strawberry flavored Sweets Softies. Her face immediately turns a delightfully pleasant shade of pink, as she plucks the candy from my hand and shoves it deep into her carry-on.

"T-Thank you," she stutters after a long moment, as if being reminded of her manners. I don't even try to fight the smirk that works its way onto my face.

Our boarding gate finally opens, and we make our way over to wait for our seat numbers to be called. Satan begins to pale, and her voice trembles ever so slightly when she speaks.

Yes, the devil has a weakness. She is terrified of airplanes.

The fact rises to my mind, unbidden. I clench my jaw when I remember how panicked she had been when we decided to fly from Spain to Amsterdam for a weekend. It hadn't been a long flight, but it had taken me hours to calm her down after the flight. Not that I had minded. I had loved her enough to give her whatever she needed from me.

And look how that turned out.

I try to ignore the tug of concern for her at my conscience, but Satan gets chatty when she's nervous, so I indulge her.

"You know, I always think about how funny it is that I studied art history, but I ended up working at Swan Sweets. It has nothing to do with my degree. I don't even know why I chose art history, I didn't have a passion for it. I didn't even like it," she rambles.

"I know you didn't," I answer sagely. I remember trying to convince her to explore other majors, to find what she was passionate about, but she had told me that I was her only passion. I avoid her gaze, and look out at the tarmac.

"You did know," she agrees emphatically. "You were right to try to get me to explore other majors, but I never did. I even got my doctorate in Renaissance Art, and you know what? I just did it to do it. It didn't excite me. It still doesn't."

I'm surprised. I didn't know that she had pursued art history that far, but her reasoning doesn't surprise me.

"That's what happens when you do things just to do them," I answer mildly. I make the mistake of looking at her face. Her eyes are boring holes into me, looking past my body and into my soul. They're wide with an emotion I don't even want to begin to decipher. I want to look away, but I'm trapped.

"Edward," she says softly. "Edward, not you. Never you. I didn't-"

"Do me a favor," I interrupt her quietly. "Don't ever talk to me about Spain again, okay?" My voice is soft, but I know that my words hurt her. I close my eyes and let out a breath before continuing. "We have to live together for the next month. I promise I'll be cordial, but please. Stop bringing up the past."

It's already obvious that just being exposed to Satan has begun to chip at my defenses against her. If she keeps pushing, she'll knock down all of the walls that I've worked so hard to erect. And then we'll be right back where we started, which invariably ends with me being fucked and Satan moving on with her life.

"But I want to apologize," she tries. "I want...I want..."

I don't interrupt her until she fall silent for lack of words. She looks up at me for help. I give a dry chuckle.

"See? You don't even know what you want," I tell her. "But I do. You want redemption. You want to say sorry, and you want me to tell you that it's all okay so that you don't have to live with yourself, so that you don't have to look in the mirror everyday and know exactly what kind of person you are, and exactly what you've done."

"Edward-"

"It's not about you," I tell her. "That's what you keep forgetting. From the very beginning, it was all about you, about how you were feeling, about your fears, about what made you feel good. But it's not just about you."

"I know that," she insists. "In Spain, I kept letting things happen to me, Edward. I let my mom choose my major. I let my school choose my abroad program. I let Jacob choose me. I let you choose me. None of it was real until I started making my own choices, and by the time I realized that I had chosen you, it was too late!"

The intensity in her character and in her voice are almost enough to convince me that she's being sincere. But I know better. Satan had taught me better. I shake my head, but I keep silent.

Satan is staring at me, hoping for an answer. What does she want me to say? What could she possibly be expecting? When she realizes that I have no intention of indulging her any further, there's a sharp punctuation of sadness in her features. She deflates in her seat. After a long moment, I speak.

"You're right," I say quietly, avoiding her gaze. "It _is_ too late."

The voice of the attendant over the intercom calling our seats interrupts our silence. It looks like Satan's nerves have been chased away, but as soon as we stand to board the plane, her face begins to pale again. The attendant scans our tickets and smiles brightly at us.

"You two are so gorgeous together," she compliments us with a smile. I thank her. Behind me, Satan stays silent.

My favorite part of flying is the moment of take off, when your stomach drops, and you feel the aircraft rising into the air. The physics of the feat alone are admirable, so I thoroughly enjoy those moments. Satan, obviously, doesn't share my sentiments. She closes the window beside her, takes two pills, and leans her head back. She closes her eyes, and I notice that she's trembling. I can't help but feel bad for her. She's falling apart, and we haven't even begun moving.

The plane fills up slowly, and I spy Emmett heading into the economy section. He gives me a quick wave and I nod in acknowledgement. Finally, after what feels like decades, the aircraft is ready for takeoff, and we begin speeding down the tarmac. Satan's eyes are wide open with fright now. She's trying not to show her horror, but it's clear on her face. I take a deep breath, and I find myself putting my hand on the armrest between us, palm out and open. She looks between my hand and my face. She's almost as surprised as I am. I give her a soft smile of encouragement, and I watch relief wash over her face.

She takes my hand, and for a moment, I think that I might be having a heart attack. There is a dull ache in my chest at the moment of contact. Her hand is a perfect fit in mine. It's as if my body recognizes that we were made for each other.

"You won't have to bear it for long," she whispers, motioning to our intertwined hands. "I took some Benadryl." I nod. At least she knows that I'm making a sacrifice. She's got a death grip on my hand, and I'm almost tempted to rub my thumb over the back of her hand to get her to relax, but that would be taking things too far. And, surprisingly, I don't mind her grip. In fact, to my horror, I find that I'm savoring the way her skin feels against mine.

When the plane takes off, her grip gets impossibly tighter. But after a few moments, it begins to relax. I look over, and I can't help but smile at the way she has begun to doze off. I know that she's drowsy, and she won't think too much about it, so I indulge myself and release her hand to wrap my arm around her. She settles her head sleepily in the crook of my shoulder, and murmurs something quietly. My whole body reacts to the feel of her, the smell of her hair, the softness of her cheek. I relax against my head rest, and I can't help but think how absolutely, positively fucked I am.

I don't fight the sleep when it comes.

* * *

A/N: I want to thank you all so much for the reviews, favorites and follows that you've all submitted in the past week. It's been a difficult time, with midterms and my mother going through chemotherapy. I've been stressed and exhausted to say the least, but your support keeps me moving forward.

This chapter is part one of Edward's POV, so instead of bouncing back to Isabella for the next chapter, we'll stay in Edward's head for part two.

Please forgive typos and errors, I'm much too exhausted to beta my own writing, but I wanted to give this chapter to you guys as a thank you for your support.


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